


Push and Pull

by mediwitch3



Category: Glee
Genre: Episode Related, M/M, Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-03
Updated: 2012-10-03
Packaged: 2017-11-15 14:09:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/528130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mediwitch3/pseuds/mediwitch3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Bring it." "Brung." What if Mr Shue hadn't broken up Sam and Finn's fight? The fist fight from Sylvester Shuffle in an Alternate Universish world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Push and Pull

"Bring it."

"Brung."

Your fingers meet his shoulders in a shove. His letterman crinkles, and his blonde hair  _swishes_  as you apply force, then release. His brow creases, and then his hands are on your shoulders. You take a small step back because, even though he's not pushing very hard, his resistance startles you. You push back, a little bit harder, because, now, after all this time, you're finally getting into it. Now it's his turn, his palms  _clap_  against your pectorals, and you  _feel_  the pressure build in his muscles for a moment before he pushes again. Back and forth, to and fro, push and pull. Over and over and over. The tension is building between you as he takes the initiative to bring it one step further. You feel the ridges of the metal lockers dig into your back as he  _slams_  you into them. They're cool, even through your letterman. You're taller than him, you and he and everyone watching knows that, so when you roll him back so you're on top, it really isn't a shock to anyone.

He struggles, but you're bigger, and it's futile. And even though you know it's inevitable, you don't like fighting with him. You hate it because he just wants to belong, and he's a good singer, and you do kinda like him, and you  _do_ wanna be his friend, and when it all boils down, he's just like you, really. But you don't release him, because it'd be damaging to both of you. So you hold him, and pretend like you're struggling, but you aren't. And he's still wiggling underneath you, and you can feel  _every movement_ , and  _every muscle_. Every time his muscles tense, every time his limbs twist, every time he goes sorta slack, trying to regain a little strength. Every twist of the hips. Every glide of the pelvis. Every bump of the groin. Another particularly hard jerk of the hips, and you feel it. It's the same feeling you got when you kissed Quinn for the first time, and the same feeling you got when you touched Rachel's breasts. The little spark up your spine. The drop of your stomach.  _The fluttering of your heart._

It all goes straight to your groin. Without even realizing, you push against him harder. To the average onlooker, you're trying to crush him with the weight of your body. But you know better. And your faces are so, so close. And the miniscule gasp that exits his lips,  _his lips_ , dances across your face and sings in your ears. His hands,  _his hands_ , that had been, until now, pinned above him by your own, are now pressed in between his body,  _his body_ , and yours. His fingers,  _his fingers,_ curl roughly around where the lapels of your jacket would have been if it had any. Your own hands scrabble at his hips,  _his hips,_ desperate to find purchase. He clutches you a little tighter, a little closer, his breath  _puff_ ing against your too hot face.

And it suddenly becomes too, too much. You kiss him. It's all tongue, and teeth, and his wide, cavernous mouth.  _God, his_ _ **mouth**_. It's  _hot,_ and  _wet_ , and absolutely, the best kiss you've ever had. He seems to agree, as his hands,  _God, his_ _ **hands**_ , slide up around your shoulders and dig into your neck. One of you groans a little bit, but it'd be impossible, at this point, to tell who, and you instinctively lift your hips a little bit. And when he lifts his, and your groins meet, the choir in you mind is singing  _Hallelujah!_  And the rest of you is sighing  _finally._  And there's a niggling feeling in the back of your mind telling you,  _stop, stop, there are people. Stop,_ _ **stop**_ _._  And you realize with a start  _exactly_  what you are doing, and  _exactly_ _ **who**_  you are doing it with. And most of all, you realize  _exactly_  where you are.

So you stop. And your cheeks burn with shame. And, against your better judgement, you open your eyes, which you don't remember closing, and look around at an utterly silent...

Hallway. You pull away from him, still absolutely ashamed of what you did. And his cheeks are pink, to match yours, and you notice the tent in his pants, making you hyper aware of your own. And you have to look away, because this is too much, and he's too much, and he makes you  _feel_   _ **too much**_ , and you're  _straight_ , dammit!

"I'm sorry," you whisper in a gravelly voice, "I'm so, so sorry. This  _never_  should have happened."

And then you run. You turn around, and run down the hallway, trying the best you can not to waddle, because that damn boner won't go away. You run, passing classrooms and lockers. You run, away from the fight, away from your confusion, away from  _him._  Away from  _his lips,_  away from  _his hands,_ away from  _his body,_   _his fingers, his hips._ And as you start to remember his _face_  when you pulled away from him, when you told him it shouldn't have happened, you pick up speed. Because there really isn't a buzz kill like pain.

You stop, in the middle of the football field, in the pouring rain. You stop because there's a pain in your chest, and it  _hurts_. Remembering the pained, confused,  _ashamed_  look on his face, _his face_ , when you left him,  _hurts._ And before you can stop it, the tears are running, skipping and jumping down your face. They're laughing and gurgling, and chasing each other under your chin, and they're mixing with the raindrops, and having a grand old time. But you're not. You're sobbing, loudly, obnoxiously,  _angrily_. The anguish manifests itself in throat wrenching _wails,_ and restricted breathing, and mind numbing  _confusion_.

You don't understand.  _You do not understand._  You  _like girls_. You always have. So  _why? Why_ , are you so upset over a  _boy?_  Another sob wracks your chest, and realization hits you like a ton of bricks.

You  _love_  him. You  _do._  And you sink to the ground as you go over every moment you've had contact with him since he got to this school.  _God._ You are so  _stupid._ You  _really_  thought you could pass off  _those_ feelings as  _friendship?_  You have had enough experience with girls to know the difference between platonic and  _romantic_  feelings.

A hand between your shoulder blades startles you out of your misery for a moment. Your neck snaps up as you look to see who has moved in front of you. The letter man and jeans are the first things you notice. Then the pudgy face, and the drenched hair. He only tells you one thing.

"Go for it."

And it is the realization that the school's most homophobic student is giving you his blessing that gives you the strength to turn around and  _go for it._ You're running again, back through the halls, past classrooms and lockers, searching, searching for him. Your heart sinks a little with each step, as you realize that  _you rejected him_. Of course he's not going to stick around an see if you decide to come back. But, as you pass the choir room, the strumming of a guitar reaches your ears. You creep over, not wanting to disturb whoever's in there in case it's not who you're looking for. You peer around the open door, that's right take a good long look, and see him. A sad little smile on his face,  _his face_ , as his hands, _his hands_ , pluck gently at the guitar strings.  _Just like they're plucking at my heart strings._  The thought is so sudden, and so cliché that the reality of the situation hits you like a punch in the gut. But, after a few seconds of listening to the guitar, you decide that it's all worth it,  _he's_  worth it.

" _So I drive home alone_  
As I turn out the light  
I'll put his picture down  
And maybe get some sleep tonight

' _Cuz he's the reason for the teardrops on my guitar_  
 _The only one who's got enough of me to break my heart_  
 _He's the song in the car I keep singing_  
 _Don't know why I do."_

You listen quietly from the doorway as quiet sobs escape his mouth,  _his mouth,_ and that's the final straw. To hell with the consequences. You stride into the choir room, catching him by surprise. He stands up, hastily wiping the tears from his eyes,  _god, his eyes._  He starts to put away his guitar, looking like he really needs something to do. When he straightens back up, his face is clear of tears. All that's left is a cold indifference, hurt lurking just beneath the surface. He gives you a once over, eyes lingering over the lines that are clearly defined by your soaked shirt.

"You're all wet." He states calmly. You look him dead in the eye and steal yourself for what you're about to say next.

"I love you."

He looks completely startled by your declaration. It seems impromptu love confessions are your thing now. He walks over to you, slowly, and you fidget nervously. He looks up at you, then...

_SMACK_

Your jaw hangs open, your cheek burning, and your head snapped sideways. He  _slapped_  you.  _He_ slapped  _you._   _He_ slapped you. He slapped  _you._  And then, because of the ridiculousness of the action you laugh. He looks at you, wide eyed, as the deep, rumbling chuckles tumble out of your mouth. And then, with that adorable, trouty mouth of his, he grins. Not the little half smile he'd been doing since he came here. A full out, wide mouthed, stretched lipped, toothy  _grin_. And he is the single most beautiful thing you've ever seen. So, naturally, you kiss him. And finally, after what seems like forever and a day, you're  _home_.


End file.
